


Gold Dust

by irisbleufic



Category: Gotham (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Animals, Bickering, Birds, Bugs & Insects, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Cats, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daemons, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Extinction, F/F, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lizards, M/M, Moths, Multi, Murder Wives, Naked Cuddling, POV Oswald Cobblepot, POV Tabitha Galavan, Post-Coital Cuddling, Protectiveness, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12824994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Fisher King!” Eszter screeched, lighting on the headboard next to Desdemona while Edward blinked at his surreal upside-down vision of the two birds. “Of all thenerve, Oswald, that’s what they’re calling—”“A literary reference of that magnitude isn’t necessarilybad,” Desdemona cut in hesitantly, just as Oswald woke to the commotion of Edward, who held that morning’s Gotham Gazette above their heads, trying to get the newspaper out of its slipcover.[COMPLETED 7/24/18.Daemon AU/His Dark Materialsfusion ficlet collection.  Overarching title & chapter subtitles pulled fromthis song.]





	1. Enjoy His Every Smile

No matter how close Oswald held Edward now that they were home, safe from the myriad prying eyes at The Sirens, he couldn't shake the harrowing memory. The last time he'd clutched at a fallen loved one like that, pleading in desperation, it had been his mother. So Oswald told him as as much. Gertrud had spoken her last words just as her frantic greenfinch, Álmos, had blown to glittering Dust.

“It must have been terrible,” Edward murmured, drowsy and flushed in Oswald's embrace. He had his damp cheek pressed to Oswald's chest, as if intent upon Oswald's heartbeat. He shivered when Oswald skimmed concerned fingertips over the marks at his throat for the dozenth time. “I wasn't there when my parents died, of course, but I know what it's like when...”

Oswald nodded, kissing the top of Edward's tousled head. He'd spoken of the horror he'd experienced the first time he'd killed, the abject despair he'd felt as Nestor, Miss Kringle's Red Admiral, winked out. That species of butterfly was apparently rare as daemons went.

“You're safe,” Oswald insisted, threading his fingers through Edward's hair. “Desdemona is safe, too.”

“Shameless,” chided Eszter, from the headboard, brashly enough to make Oswald look up. “Both of you!” 

The pied kingfisher continued to root in the pocket of Oswald’s jacket, which was draped there. She flew off with his handkerchief, the distinctive banded pattern of her chest a black-and-white flash in the candlelit room. Only two people had ever revealed to Oswald that they were informed enough to know her coloration was typical for a male of her species, and Edward was one of them.

“Mine's on the floor,” Edward volunteered helpfully, yawning as he draped his arm over Oswald's hip.

“Rude!” Eszter called, busy on the dressing table, as if she weren't accustomed by now to Edward's unnerving habit of addressing other people's daemons directly. But she gave as good as she got. Desdemona was utterly enamored of having a worthy sparring partner.

Oswald indulged in silent laughter for the first time that evening while Edward went suspiciously quiet.

“I don't see what's so funny,” Eszter went on, her voice muffled thanks to the pile of fabric she'd accrued. “What were you trying to do, get us all killed? Your actions tonight were the most foolish I've seen since—”

It took Oswald a moment to realize that she was addressing Desdemona now, wherever the raven was.

“I had to,” said Desdemona, frankly, without shame. “ _We_ had to, or you and Oswald would've—”

“My first is foremost legally; my second circles outwardly,” said Edward, cutting her off. “My third leads all to victory; my fourth ends twice a nominee. My whole is this gate's only key. What am I?”

“Love,” said Desdemona, before Oswald could even take a stab at it. “You were terrible at that game.”

“I was not,” Edward insisted, almost pouting, but he slumped harder against Oswald. “I beat it quickly.” He sighed, pressing a kiss against Oswald's breastbone. “She's right, Oswald. That's why.”

“I don't know where I'd be without you,” Oswald said, stroking Edward's arm. “But _tell_ me next time.”

“What if we can't?” said Edward and Desdemona, from opposite sides of the room, in uncanny unison.

Eszter, who'd gone hunting for Edward's jacket, zipped back to the dressing table with Edward's tie.

“Move your rectrices, Writing Desk,” she snapped at Desdemona, getting back to...to _whatever_ it was she was doing with the items she'd accrued. She'd never behaved like this before. Nonsensical, when her kind preferred nesting in damp earth.

“I'm not at all like one,” Desdemona insisted, but made a content trilling sound at Eszter's next action.

“She was talking about _King's Quest VI_ ,” explained Edward, sleepily, loosening his hold on Oswald so he could scoot upward and tuck his head over Oswald's shoulder. “I played it at school,” he clarified drowsily. “It had good graphics for the time.”

“Sounds like it was right up your alley,” Oswald replied, kissing his cheek. “I hate to ask you to move, but I need some water,” he went on, nudging at Edward until he rolled away. “I'll be back in a moment, my love, I promise.”

Oswald tugged his dressing gown off the bedpost and donned it, snatching his jacket as an afterthought. He gathered the rest of their clothing piece by piece as he made his way across the room, noting that both ties and pocket squares, too, were absent—as were all four socks.

Exasperated, he marched to the dressing table, ignoring the searing pain in his leg, and dumped the armful of clothes on his stool.

The birds tilted their heads swiftly in tandem, peering up at Oswald in guilty, indignant surprise. They were huddled in a nest made of the missing items. Eszter had, until that moment, been busy preening and smoothing Desdemona's feathers with concern equal to Oswald's for Edward.

“ _Nosy_ ,” Eszter seethed, puffing to almost twice her size with crest-feathers raised in warning.

“Don't stop,” Desdemona said, tucking her head beneath Eszter's wing. “ _Please_. Feels nice.”

Oswald spun on his heel and hobbled back to bed, dropping his robe on the floor as he went. Eszter squawked obscenities at him, Hungarian and German interspersed, that she'd learned from Álmos. Desdemona, for once, summoned enough sense to stay out of it.

“Do you ever wish she'd settled as a penguin?” murmured Edward, burrowing back into Oswald's arms.

“No,” Oswald replied, “but I wish Desdemona had settled as something less likely to steal cufflinks.”

“Never believe him when he says he needs to get some water,” said Eszter, tartly. “It's just an excuse.”

“We're tired,” said Desdemona and Edward, with near-identical inflection, their weariness palpable.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Oswald hissed, bending across Edward to blow out the white taper on the nightstand.

Eszter cooed to Desdemona, low and melodic, the way Álmos used to mimic his mother's singing.

Oswald pulled Edward close. The only shimmer behind his eyelids was residue from the candle's flame.


	2. You Can See In the Dark

The tips of Tybalt's tiny, grasping feet tickled Tabitha's ear as she screeched to a halt in the alley behind the club. She slid off the bike, padlocked it, and yanked off her helmet. The wasp buzzed in irritation, most likely about to comment on her half-assed lock job.

“You can't know he's safe,” Tybalt said, dealing Tabitha the tiniest pinprick of a sting. “You can't.”

“I didn't ask you,” Tabitha replied, fumbling her key into the back entrance. “For now, he has to be.”

 _Abernessia capixaba_. Tybalt was from a species so long undocumented that Tabitha hadn't even known what kind of wasp her daemon was until she'd stumbled across an online article from 2013. He was part of a family in which females paralyzed spiders and dragged them into a burrow to serve as a buffet for the larva that would hatch from a single egg laid on the spider's abdomen. Creepy, but efficient.

“She won't be happy with us,” Tybalt went on as she raced up the chilly stairwell, flying swiftly to keep pace. “Neither one of them will be. Why couldn't we just leave him and Mira to Blackgate? They undoubtedly deserve whatever fate they have coming to them for—”

“Because Mira is a horned toad, and they're good for fuck-all,” Tabitha seethed, clearing the first landing. She swatted at Tybalt, distracting herself with their habitual race. “She couldn't have helped Butch escape, not with that kind of injury. Zsasz and his mangy mutt are too fast.”

“To be fair, she's a wolf,” said Tybalt, in faint admiration, circling Tabitha's head to throw her off.

“I couldn't ride like I do if you were bigger,” Tabitha pointed out, barreling through the next landing.

“I guess inducing anaphylaxis is an occasional advantage,” Tybalt hummed, landing on her shoulder.

Tabitha slowed to a jog on the final set of stairs, sweating beneath her black leather gear. She dropped her helmet on Barbara's kitschy, dark-humored welcome mat and unlocked the penthouse door. Tybalt tutted at her careless habit, reminding her of Theo.

Eimar whizzed into the kitchen ahead of Barbara, the _whirr_ of his wings as unnerving as ever.

“S'up, ma _demoiselle_?” Tybalt greeted, darting in front of the damselfly. “Are you a dragonfly yet?”

“After tonight, I sure feel like one,” Eimar retorted, body flashing metallic blue beneath the lights. “You missed the playback on television.”

“Ugh,” Tabitha said, kicking off her boots, swatting both insects out of the way. “Keep it out here.”

Barbara was lounging on the sofa, stockingless, still in her purple dress. She paused whatever she'd been watching as Tabitha stalked into the room and flopped down beside her, offering her drink. The bubbles tickled Tabitha's nose, and the vintage smelled expensive.

“You missed one hell of a news report, baby,” Barbara said, sliding an arm around Tabitha's waist. "The situation looked about the same from the audience as it did from where I was standing. You were kind of...distracted, so I thought you might wanna see the footage. Everyone thought they were gonna kiss then and there.” She nuzzled Tabitha's ear, licking just beneath it. "Can't say I blame them. If you'd been on the stage, I couldn't have helped myself. Let's hope for the sake of Mr. Mayor's adoring public that they went home and had some fun.”

Grudgingly, Tabitha accepted the glass, swallowing what champagne remained in it. “Who cares.”

“I do,” Barbara crooned, attempting to get a rise out of her. “Those birdies tried to peck you to death.”

“Never seen a daemon keep going like that,” said Tabitha, venomously. “Nygma was unconscious.”

“You know what they say about men with feathered friends,” Barbara sneered. “Sons of witches.”

“Don't be a dumb-ass,” Tabitha said, scooting out of Barbara's reach so she could shed her jacket.

“Sure, it's probably a few generations back for both,” Barbara went on, “but it could mean trouble. Couple of twinks with residual sorcery on their side running both city hall _and_ Gotham's underworld? I don't like our chances of climbing the food chain. Just think how far afield the kingfisher and the raven can fly. Whoever nicknamed Ozzie the Penguin wasn't thinking straight. On the other hand, just look at him. Who _could_?”

“I took Butch to an old safe-house,” Tabitha sighed, pointedly ignoring her. “Mira almost got squashed in his pocket. She said she never wanted to ride on my bike again, please and thank you. I think maybe I'm gonna miss her even more than I'm gonna miss him.”

Barbara laughed shrilly, taking back the glass. “It's pathetic when big lugs like him have tiny—”

“I don't expect you to like the fact that we helped him,” Tybalt raged, indignantly taking refuge in the shell of Tabitha's ear while Eimar did an angry circuit of the sofa. “You're too selfish to get it! He's done so much to protect us, and you'd repay him _how_?”

“Too selfish to worry about you getting snapped up by that despicable lizard?” Eimar countered coldly.

“ _Boys_!” Barbara scolded, insinuating her arm back around Tabitha, roughly jostling Tybalt. “Out!”

Eimar chased Tybalt around the room several more times before Tybalt baited him into the bedroom.

They didn't need to be told twice, and they were, on the whole, far more circumspect than the daemons of any other lovers Tabitha had ever encountered. What games _they_ played while she and Barbara got wrapped up in each other, she'd never thought to ask. 

Did they, too, experience flavors of pain as exquisite gradations of pleasure? When the bite of Barbara's nails intensified, electric, or when Barbara's shrieks waxed too loud beneath Tabitha's unflinching ministrations, she _wondered_...

“You're the one I always come home to,” said Tabitha, softly, brushing Barbara's hair off her forehead.

“You and your smart little whip of a spider-killer,” Barbara replied, kissing her. “How 'bout it, baby?”

Tabitha arched her back in response as she shifted into Barbara's lap: as poised as ever, ready to strike.


	3. How Did It Go So Fast

Selina clung apprehensively to the fire escape, ready to drop into the alley below at any moment. 

She'd tailed the tall, striking redhead and boring-looking old dude she had on her arm from The Sirens to where they were now. She hadn't cared to hang around and see whether Penguin and Forensics Guy were going to suck face or not. She wanted to find out why the woman had pretended to know her, and why that teasing, _familiar_ tone had so easily rattled her.

“She doesn't know what she's doing,” Ovinnik whispered, light-footed on the iron railing above Selina's head. “She's trying to flirt the guy into letting her rob him, but it's not gonna end well.”

“No shit, dummy,” Selina hissed, sparing a glance upward. Her daemon had settled only a few days before, and she should've been prepared for the irony. “But I wanna give her benefit of the doubt.”

Armed with the knowledge that her deadbeat dad's daemon had been a sleek, sandy-haired feline—her mom had never been able to identify the breed, and didn't want to—Selina had gone to the library when she was twelve and typed as many phonetic interpretations of her daemon's name as she could into a public-access computer. A search engine informed her that it sounded an awful lot like the name of an ancient Polish cat god, so she'd asked Ovinnik if that was an okay spelling. He'd said yes.

Ovinnik, proud in the shape of a green-eyed Abyssinian, flicked his tail. “What's she doing with that—”

“Ovin, shut _up_ ,” Selina said, shifting her gloved grip on the bars. “You're gonna give us away!”

“It'd be nice if Bruce and Taalu were still here,” Ovinnik replied, licking his paw. “We need backup.”

Selina was sick of Taalumah and her freaky barn-owl face, but she wasn't about to say that out loud.

“I made it just for you,” said the young woman below, leaning even farther into the man's space, waving her pendant under his nose. “Doesn't it smell _nice_? And when I put it on my skin...”

With a single whiff of whatever the redhead had slathered on her wrist, the man stiffened where he stood and fell over. At Selina's involuntary gasp, the redhead looked up in bewilderment. Her eyes were inquisitive; her features seemed smaller. _Recognizable_.

“Well, fuck,” Ovinnik said, leaping lithely to the ground as one of the pale green ornaments in the woman's coppery hair fluttered free of its perch and circled him in unabashed glee. “ _Damaris_?”

“Come down, little kitty,” said the redhead, smirking beneath the lamplight. “Selina, that means you.”

Selina dropped to the grit, gravel, and broken glass below, fighting back helpless tears. “Oh God, _Ivy_?”

“I'm disappointed,” said Damaris, airily, in the form of a luna moth. She landed on Ovinnik's nose, waving her feathery antennae even as the cat's whisker's twitched. “Took you long enough to guess.”

“You could've gotten yourself killed,” Selina said, throwing her arms around Ivy, crushing her ribcage.

“Yeah, well,” Ivy said, patting Selina's back. “You know what they say about guys. Can't resist a girl with a she-daemon, am I right?” She sniffed in disdain. “Piece of cake. Help me clear his pockets?”

They made quick work of emptying the guy's pockets, coming away with both a stuffed billfold and a credit-card holder. They split the hundred and eighty dollars and tossed the rest of it down the nearest sewer grate while their daemons kept watch, flanking them with aloof wariness.

Selina wanted to ask Ivy how she knocked the dude out, but not now. The explanation probably involved some kind of plant stuff that Selina wouldn't understand, and then Ivy would get frustrated with her. Of the two of them, Ivy would've done the best in school.

Damaris shifted her shape in a puff of glittering smoke, re-materializing as a lavender-eyed Siamese.

“Jeez, that's unnerving,” Selina commented, pocketing the cash. “Not settled yet, huh? Ovin just did.”

“Nobody is surprised,” said Ivy, in delight, crouching to hold out her hand so Ovinnik could sniff it.

Damaris butted Ovinnik's head out of the way, purring loudly beneath Ivy's touch. “We can't settle.”

“I was, uh,” said Selina, sticking both thumbs in her pockets, “tactfully avoiding the question, but...”

“This dude from Indian Hill with really weird powers—like, one of Fish's crew that you saw when you were with her—touched me before I fell in the water,” Ivy explained, rising gracefully as Damaris hopped up onto her shoulder. “When I washed up on the riverbank, I looked like _this_. It's like he made me grow too fast for poor Dam to catch up. Or something.”

“How do you know you _can't_ settle?” Selina asked Damaris, who had turned back into a moth.

“Because I keep trying, and it doesn't work,” Damaris said, giving her antenna-flick version of a shrug.

“How can you _try_ to settle if you don't even know what settling feels like?” Ovinnik challenged.

“Since you're such an expert on what it feels like,” Ivy challenged, scooping Ovinnik up and scritching his head before he could flee up the fire escape, “why don't _you_ tell her? Huh? _Oof_ , watch the claws!” 

“Aw, cut that out,” Selina sighed, but she couldn't summon the energy to do much more than scowl. "Looks like the growth spurt did nothing for your manners, and I can tell it did nothing for your common sense."

Ivy dropped a purring Ovinnik, quickening her pace. “We need to skedaddle before he wakes up.”

“I've missed ya, Ives,” Selina said, bumping elbows with Ivy, her nose itching as Damaris landed on the tip of it. “You, too, Dam. I'm sorry about the settling thing. All we ever did was look forward to the day. It _sucks_.”

“I wouldn't say that,” replied Ivy, cheerfully linking arms with Selina. “We can be whatever we want.”

Selina sighed and nodded, glad they were about to emerge into the street. She whistled for Ovinnik.


	4. Twilight Held Us In Her Palm

The thump of Cara's tail against Jim's front door alerted him to Harvey's presence. Not uncommon, late-night visits, especially not after as eventful an evening as the GCPD must have had. Jim had been watching the eleven o'clock news; he'd _seen_ the footage from the club.

“Burnin' the midnight oil, brother?” Harvey asked, sloshing a full bottle of scotch in Jim's face as he answered the door. “Where's Sigyn, huh?” he asked, and Cara's ears perked at the promise of seeing her favorite daemon on earth. “Asleep?”

Jim glanced over his shoulder to where his daemon lay before the television with her head on her paws.

“Paying attention to the news because I've stopped,” said Jim, yawning. “Come inside. You'll freeze.”

Cara snuffled gratefully, trotting ahead of Harvey to join Sigyn in front of the screen. “Heya, lazy.”

“Lazy yourself,” Sigyn said, nipping affectionately at Cara's muzzle until she stilled. “Long night?”

Jim fetched two shot glasses from the sidebar and resumed his seat on the sofa. He was as struck as ever by the sight of a German Shepherd and an Irish Terrier, both full-grown, behaving like pups. Gauche, maybe, to joke that his daemon played well with others.

“There's no sign of Gilzean,” Harvey sighed, dropping down beside Jim so hard that the sofa creaked.

“Valerie called and said Tabitha Galavan chased down the ambulance and abducted him,” Jim sighed.

“Less of an abduction and more of a rescue, if you ask me,” Harvey said, pouring the scotch while Jim held the glasses as steady as his weary, newly-scarred hands could manage. “She's allegedly been as _involved_ with him as with Barbara, if you get my drift.”

“He'd like it if you did,” Cara sniggered, covering her muzzle so that Sigyn couldn't nip at her again.

“You're worse than Desdemona ever was,” Sigyn growled in annoyance, thwapping Cara with her tail.

“Shut your yap,” Harvey groaned, downing his shot. “The last person I wanna think about is Nygma.”

Jim threw his back with equal conviction, shaking his head. “Harv, you should've seen the footage.”

“I've _heard_ about the footage,” said Harvey, darkly. “Believe me when I say I don't wanna.”

Jim watched Harvey refill their glasses, calculating how many it would take to get them both hammered. He'd had nearly a week without bounty haul, so he appreciated the free booze. He felt bad he couldn't offer any food in return.

“We can't just ignore the situation,” he said decisively. “I should've known they'd be trouble from the moment I woke up in Ed's apartment. Feels like a lifetime ago, what with how they've both been in and out of Arkham since, but I should've paid attention. Oswald was making regular visits.”

“You know what they say about jailbird romance,” Harvey replied. “Big emphasis on the _bird_ part.”

“I don't buy into that stuff about witch-blood,” Jim said, nursing his shot. “There's no sorcery here except that they found each other. It makes a lot more sense than I'd like, too. Both only children, both outcasts, both alone in the world. Shared interests, mostly killing people who oppose them.”

"So serious," commented Cara, archly, directing the statement at Sigyn. "How d'you put up with it?"

"Same way you two must," Sigyn muttered, laying her ears flat in contact embarrassment. "Loyalty."

“You're right, though,” Harvey lamented, already on his third shot. “They're dangerous in cahoots.”

Cara yawned loudly, the sound tapering off on a whimper. “Can I crash in your bed? Floor's cold.”

Tail thumping the floor in irritation, Sigyn let her muzzle drop back to her paws. “Suit yourself.”

Jim watched as Cara trotted over to Sigyn's bed at the far end of the sofa and happily lay down in it.

“Planning on spending the night, Harv?” Jim asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “My sofa's your sofa.”

Harvey set the bottle and his shot glass down on the floor, leaning on his knees. “Not cool, Cara.”

“Neither are you, old man,” she countered, tucking her nose beneath her tail. “There's room for two.”

Sigyn, seemingly at the end of whatever leash Cara had slipped on her, got up and padded to the bed.

“You got anything to say about that?” Jim asked point-blank, leaning forward to set down his glass.

Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, elbows braced on his thighs. “Swear I didn't come over here to...”

Lightheaded with scotch and their daemons' impending contact, Jim nudged Harvey's shoulder with his.

In all the time they'd been working together, a certain level of intimacy might be taken for granted. They'd finished each other's sentences as often as they'd finished each other's meals, and they'd fallen asleep on each other during any number of stake-outs. Embraces and casual touch seemed par for the course, and _that_ was the catch. Neither one of them was the type to open up so fast.

Harvey had always just chalked it up to their daemons getting along from day one, even when the two of _them_ initially hadn't. Captain Essen had remarked on it frequently, asserting that it boded well for their partnership. Jim, on the other hand, hadn't known what to make of it. And while he hadn't liked Harvey at first, he'd _respected_ him. That was a constant, as was Harvey's affable charm.

“The thing with Val's never gonna work out,” Jim said, relieved to articulate it. “Don't complicate this.”

“Why the hell's everything so easy for dogs,” Harvey slurred, turning his head to abashedly regard Jim.

Pointedly, Sigyn insinuated herself around Cara's tightly-curled form, huffing in relief as she settled.

“You're the only one who's taken my career change in stride, I'll give you that much,” Jim quipped.

Harvey chuckled and slumped back against the sofa, reaching for Jim in the same fractured breath.

“C'mere, you idiot,” he sighed, tugging Jim close against his side. “Spare my washed-up dignity.”

“Funny, but I wasn't under the impression either of us had much,” said Jim, and kissed his cheek.


	5. Letting Names Hang In the Air

Fish knew about the cabin hidden on the bayou because her mother—and _her_ mother's mother—had grown up in it. Tumbledown now, gone to ruin, with a front porch draped in mosquito netting. She'd just barely gotten it up to code.

For a month, she and Tezcatlipoca had taken to lounging there in the evenings while Strange worked his calculations fast and feverish by lantern-light. Long, long time since the cabin had seen a man. Even then, maybe it had been never.

“Tez,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, languishing in the heat. “Be a darling and see where our friend Gan has gotten off to. It wouldn't do for her to end up that grand-daddy alligator's supper. Our honored guest would be heartbroken.”

The jaguar unfurled his tail and dismounted the swing, sinuous. “My money's on that rotten old log.”

“I told you,” said Strange, with placid resignation. “Her only joy in this backwater is fishing for sport.”

Fish watched Tezcatlipoca slink beneath the mosquito netting and down the front stairs. “Poor thing.”

“Water Monitors are hunters,” Strange replied, scribbling in his notebook, apparently unconcerned. “You of all people should know what it's like, having a predator for a daemon. Their restlessness knows no bounds.”

“Nor does ours, Hugo,” Fish said, snapping to attention as a racket of yowling and splashing rose at the water's edge. “Now now _now_ ,” she chided as Tezcatlipoca dragged Strange's three-foot lizard onto the porch by the scruff of her scaly, spotted neck. “What's this all about?”

The jaguar dropped a guilty-looking Gan. “Tried her tail at a swim after curfew. Tsk _tsk_.”

“I was hungry,” said Gan, reproachfully, hurrying to skulk beneath Strange's battered side chair.

“She is a tad scrawny for her kind, now I think about it,” Fish yawned. “But she and Tez ate earlier.”

Tezcatlipoca hissed at Gan, driving her beneath the desk. Extending her split tongue, Gan hissed back.

“How civilized we are,” Strange chuckled, snapping his notebook shut, “for a household of fugitives.”

“Back in the day,” Fish said, rocking idly as Tezcatlipoca leapt back up beside her, “at my club, I'd have Oswald make tea and bring it to my table. That was before the limp, you understand. Difficult to believe he was once well-suited to servitude, isn't it?”

“A limp that you, no doubt, gave him,” Strange observed, implacable behind his rose-tinted glasses.

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Doctor?” Fish asked. “I never told you that story, but maybe you got it from the news. Last we checked on this fancy phone of yours,” she said, drawing the device from her cleavage, “my little birdie was in the midst of transforming from Penguin to Fisher King.”

“It's true you have no _idea_ what I get up to while you sleep,” said Strange, with a wolfish grin.

Gan rustled beneath the desk, emerging from the shadows. “Tez,” she sneered, flicking her clever, graceful tongue. “O mighty jungle cat. Could you not catch one puny water-bird to save your resurrected mistress's hide?”

Tezcatlipoca roared in agitation while Fish tapped _Mayor Oswald Cobblepot_ into a search.

“There _there_ , my treasure, my silver-and-gold,” Strange crooned to Gan. “We mustn't be too hard on them. After all, we did promise to make amends for our trespasses. Which, I am given to understand, are many.”

The most recent hit this time was a video, and Fish would've recognized that stage anywhere. She hit _PLAY_ , realizing too late that Strange had risen and come over to stand beside her, curious. She was too absorbed to make him go away.

There was no sound, on her insistence that the device remain mute. By whatever sorcery of anbaricity and Dust that Strange had imparted to her by means of some poor soul's severed cuttlefish daemon, she was able to charge the phone in brief bursts. The compulsion effect _did_ have its uses, although she'd found it expedient to push the intensity ever higher in order to keep both humans _and_ their daemons in line. Her prisoner, thanks to whatever twist of fate, was particularly acquiescent. _No_ thanks to whatever other twist, his dragon-pretender of a daemon was not.

“Oh my,” said Strange, bending so his breath filled her ear. “Is that my two most illustrious patients?”

Fish let the video play once, twice, half a dozen times—focusing on a different distracting detail for each.

She detested what the Galavan and Kean girls had done by way of décor, although their wardrobe was on point.

She _ached_ for Butch, her poor Butch and Mira both. For the incalculable harm done to him, Victor Zsasz and his whole sickeningly capable _mongrel_ crew could go hang. And there was Oswald, he and his indomitable Eszter at the frantic heart of the action, with eyes only for the young man who had fallen—whose daemon could seemingly act even when he was unconscious.

Tezcatlipoca slunk off the swing again, growling low and ferocious at whatever Gan was doing.

“It makes me wish I'd had both of them in my care at once. There's no one else in their world.”

True enough, there was not. Oswald had dropped his regal pretense without a second thought, and all for _this_. For a two-bit former GCPD flunky to whom he'd taken a shine purely by chance. Perhaps that Florence Nightingale Effect nonsense went both ways.

“I'm warning you, gator-bait,” said Tezcatlipoca, with false gaiety. “I'll throw you to them myself.”

“Oh, _Tez_ ,” Gan sighed. “You'd stand no more of a chance against the eleven-footer than I.”

“Your kingfisher took the raven for a footman,” Strange said balefully. “How long will _that_ last?”

Fish let the delicate contraption fall to the floorboards, rising to backhand Strange with all her strength. While he staggered, groaning in pain, she took hold of his wrist and delivered a jolt so powerful that Gan _screamed_.

“Don't you ever,” she said, deadly as the deity-named beast at her side, “talk like that about my boy.”


	6. Make It Up As We Go Along

Caroline sat alone at her kitchen table for a long, long time after she'd turned off the television. 

Save for her cap and jacket, she hadn't bothered to remove her uniform. She cradled her third mug of Sleepytime herbal tea in both hands, not at all drowsy. Despite her mother's insistence, the shit didn't do what it said on the box.

Laetitia had settled in Caroline's upside-down cap, her faintly rosy throat and otherwise mottled caramel feathers puffed in contentment. With a bob of her graceful head, she pecked at the chipping Gotham Art Museum logo on Caroline's mug.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she cooed glibly. “Can't get that image out of your head? Neither can I.”

Caroline shrugged and took another sip. “Not like it bothers me. All I regret is that I was stuck waiting in the car while it happened. Those sons of bitches. Coulda made myself useful, you know? Gotten them outta there quicker.”

“You're no sharpshooter,” cautioned Laetitia, stretching her charcoal-dappled wings. “Not these days.”

“Watch your beak, Tish,” Caroline sighed, hiding her smile behind the mug's rim as she took a deep, lukewarm swallow. “That's a morbid statement, coming from—well, from someone like _you_. Miss Fuckin' Manners.”

“No one would dare hunt me,” Laetitia replied. “But hunt you, yes. And I pass when you pass.”

“I'm so glad most people think you're a mourning dove,” Caroline muttered. Of all the unusual avian daemons back generations and generations of Fowlers—without benefit of even a single witch in living memory, the sheer _irony_ —hers had settled as a miracle hidden in plain sight.

“You're overworked,” Laetitia said with muted concern. “The campaign trail, those victory events—”

“The goddamn money,” Caroline insisted, setting her mug down for emphasis. “It's as good as gun-running ever was, if not better. Safer. I can take care of Mom, I can take care of us, and all I've gotta do is _drive_.”

“Driving two,” Latitia cautioned, her luminous black eyes narrowing, “is more work than driving one.”

“Shoot, you're tellin' me,” Caroline yawned, rising, carrying her mug over to the sink. "Even Nygma by himself is a handful." She rinsed it out and set it upside-down. Feeling apathetic, she glanced up and parted the blinds with damp fingers.

“Boo,” said the reflection-overlaid apparition on the other side, tapping on the glass with its fingernail.

“What the _hell_!” Caroline shouted, staggering back as Laetitia fluttered to her shoulder in alarm. “Jeez!”

“Can I come in?” Vee asked, miming a doorknob. “Not like it's gonna snow, but it's chilly out here.”

“You're a pain in the ass,” Caroline told her, stroking Laetitia's sleek head. “Come around front.” 

She stalked into the living room, reproachfully opening the front door. She tolerated the ticklish sensation as a tiny, pale shape scurried up her pleated pant-leg and flat chest in order to nose-kiss Laetitia.

“I could've just used the key like usual,” said Vee, apologetic. “Picked the lock for old times' sake?”

“Or you could've had Bechor gnaw a hole in the wall,” Caroline retorted. “Jerk. What kept you?”

“Boss wanted me, Vic, and Gabe to guard the perimeter,” said Vee, holding out cupped hands so that both Laetitia and Bechor could crowd into them. She cuddled both daemons against her chest, rubbing Laetitia's downy throat until Caroline, too, shivered at the contact.

“It's almost two in the morning,” Caroline pointed out, reaching over to scritch between Bechor's silky ears with her index finger, enjoying the grasshopper mouse's muffled, gleeful purr. “Why'd you leave?”

“The guys told me to go home,” Vee replied, still cradling their daemons as she made her way to the sofa and waited for Caroline to finish locking the door. “Nobody'd have the nerve to bug them after...”

“This isn't your home,” Caroline pointed out, welcoming Bechor into her lap once she'd sat down.

Vee shrugged, continuing to run her fingers through a comatose-with-pleasure Laetitia's feathers.

“We're trying again, right? On-again, off-again without ever really being off? You got me this job.”

Caroline drew up her knees and tucked herself against Vee's side, letting Bechor nibble her finger.

“You taste like that terrible tea again,” said the mouse. “If you can even _call_ that abomination tea.”

“Can it, fluffball,” Vee chided, laying a floppy Laetitia on her back while she stroked the bird's breast-feathers. “Your diet's like ninety percent bugs, so you're a fine one to talk. And what's with that howling at the moon business? Who do you think you are, one of Vic's pack?”

“You owe me a scorpion from the pet shop,” said Bechor, squeaking when Caroline tugged at his tail.

“She's gone floppy again, huh,” said Caroline, studying their reflections in the glossy coffee table. 

Tired, tattooed redhead with a pixie cut and a carnivorous rodent tucked in the curve of her elbow.

Gorgeous Chicana with upswept blue-streaked hair and a bliss-drunk passenger pigeon in her lap. 

“It's like that video,” said Vee, shaking her head in wonder. “The golden eagle that likes belly rubs.”

“Hear that, Tish?” asked Caroline, drowsily, letting her head drop against Vee's shoulder. “You may be extinct, but you know how to live it up.”

“Driver and passenger,” Bechor observed, his whiskers twitching against Caroline's wrist in something like laughter. “Don't tell me you never noticed before. What a travesty. Hah, I _can't_ —”

“Worst joke in the book, unless you count the part where her surname's Fowler,” Laetitia said lazily.

“Your daemon's the worst influence, Aragon,” Caroline told Vee, pretending to sulk. “The. Worst.”

“Nah, I'd say that title goes to you,” Vee parried smugly. “For dragging us into the Devil's own flock.”

Bechor snorted, curling up against Caroline's belly. “As if we haven't worked for someone far worse.”

“Done time for worse,” Laetitia scoffed, words whistling and slurred. “Blackgate fucking sucked.”

“I didn't teach her that language,” Vee said, feigning a judgmental glance at Caroline. “Did you?”

“Nope,” Caroline replied soberly, skimming light fingertips across Bechor's fur. “She taught _me_.”


	7. Gaslight Glow, Flickering Past

Heedless of the fact that Edward was half-asleep and enjoying Oswald’s naked, fever-warm weight draped across him, Desdemona trilled loudly in the silence of the bedroom. Less than a muffled snore from Oswald later, something crinkly, yet solid landed on Edward’s head.

“Fisher King!” Eszter screeched, lighting on the headboard next to Desdemona while Edward blinked at his surreal upside-down vision of the two birds. “Of all the _nerve_ , Oswald, that’s what they’re calling—”

“A literary reference of that magnitude isn’t necessarily _bad_ ,” Desdemona cut in hesitantly, just as Oswald woke to the commotion of Edward, who held that morning’s _Gotham Gazette_ above their heads, trying to get the newspaper out of its slipcover.

“Why can’t you bring it in every day?” Oswald muttered, worming his way out from under Edward’s raised arms and squirming so that he merely lay next to him. “Save Olga the trouble.”

“Because Bogdan protects her role around the house as jealously as if it were his alone,” Edward said, unfolding the paper so that they could see the front page. “ _Ah_ ,” he added.

Bogdan, a formidable black-beaked tundra swan, spoke as dourly and snippily as his human. Smaller bird daemons tended to bait him mercilessly; Desdemona and Eszter were no exceptions.

“I’m sure Ms. Vale thinks that’s very clever,” said Oswald, burying his face against Edward’s shoulder after less than a second of examining the headline. “Eight weeks,” he moaned. “I only lasted…”

“ _We_ only lasted eight weeks,” Edward corrected him, tossing the newspaper on the floor in favor of rolling onto his side and gathering Oswald back into his arms. “And it was grand.”

“You know the story, don’t you?” asked Oswald, bitterly. “Please inform Des that it’s not exactly as…prestigious as it sounds.”

“Oh, we know the story,” Desdemona said matter-of-factly. “And I’m right here, Oswald.”

Edward continued to pet Oswald’s endearingly disastrous hair while Oswald glanced up at her.

“Keeper of the Grail, yes,” said Eszter, retrieving the memories she shared with Oswald of Gertrud’s and Álmos’s spirited retelling, “but wounded in such a way as to suggest—”

“Your wound is literal,” Edward said, kissing the pout off Oswald’s lips, “yet stops you at nothing.”

“True, but Vale’s playing at metaphor,” Oswald seethed with agitated certainty, “and I have, as Mayor of Gotham, _failed_. That looks a lot like a jab at impotence and incompetence, if you ask me.”

“Told you so,” said Eszter, balefully, to Desdemona—but she cozied up closer all the same.

“Hwan,” Desdemona remarked, grooming Eszter’s peaked crest-feathers. “Hummingbird.”

“Media types always have eavesdroppers for daemons,” Edward agreed, clarifying what Desdemona meant. “Oswald,” he murmured, kissing the side of Oswald’s face that was exposed to him from chin to forehead, “let it go. We’re free now to do as we please.”

“It killed me to resign like that,” Oswald whispered. “If I hadn’t had you beside me, I don’t—”

“Pathetic,” Eszter scoffed. “That’s melodrama, and you know it. We’ll get by, always do.”

“You won’t just _get by_ ,” Desdemona protested, still coddling her, “now that you have us.”

Edward, tired of the birds’ contributions to the conversation, rolled Oswald onto his back, kissing him slow and deep. For propriety’s sake, he tugged the covers from their shoulders up to their necks.

“Didn’t sign up for this,” Eszter crowed, the abruptness of her take-off shaking the headboard.

“Hey!” Desdemona shot after her, launching off in the same direction, probably to hide in the permanent nest the birds had made on the top shelf of Oswald’s wardrobe. “Wait!”

Eszter’s next call was wordless, but Edward had made enough study of kingfishers to know what it meant. Desdemona’s eager response was her kind’s equivalent; there was comfort in knowing their daemons were in accord.

“I can’t give you everything I hoped,” Oswald whispered, stroking Edward’s cheeks when they broke for breath. “I can’t give you the Grail, or—or a clutch of eggs, for all Eszter’s trying!”

Edward smiled at him, every Dust-mote in him alight with the knowledge of what came next. A riddle for the relentless ages, a quandary not for the faint of heart. The hushed and hidden brush of gold-limned feathers.

“It’s not a question of whom the Grail serves,” he said, bending to breathe against the faintly-freckled shell of Oswald’s ear, “but a question of whom _I_ serve.”

“And?” Oswald asked, a little breathlessly, welcoming the press of heat between their bellies.

“That’s you,” Edward replied, raking his fingers through Oswald’s chaotic, feathery crown.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In a Handful of Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827388) by [raven_aorla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla)




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